Bent Boys and Lost Lovers
by The Last Good Name Left
Summary: Ron is an adult now, even if he doesn't much want to be. RonRemus, HarryCharlie.


On Tuesday, Hermione's brown and white striped owl, Molina, dropped a letter next to Ron's tea. Ron looked up at Molina. The owl blinked yellow eyes at him, then nudged the letter closer to Ron. Molina chucked at Ron, and picked up the last piece of Ron's toast from the rack. The owl hopped over to the window sill and proceeded to eat. Ron watched Molina for a while, and then slid his butter knife under the seal of the envelope.

Hermione's letter was short and to the point and covered several important issues. Her work in Brazil was almost finished, and she would be home in three days. She was bringing her boyfriend, a Peruvian Muggle called Fernando, and she wanted to have dinner with Ron the following week. Remus Lupin had died. Luna Lovegood had published an article on the possibility of reclassifying porlocks on par with house elves, to serve in stables; Hermione thought Ron might find it useful. Hermione's mother had taken a First at a quilt show.

By the time Ron had finished the letter, his tea was cold and Molina had eaten Ron's toast, the remains of his eggs, and the half rasher of bacon left on the plate. Molina gave Ron an imperious gaze, and demanded that Ron give him more food.

Ron sighed, and said, "Leave it Hermione to find an owl that shares her overbearing streak."

He tossed two more slices of bread under the grill, and when they were slightly burnt, gave both to Molina. Hermione had obviously sent Molina on quite a long trip, and Ron didn't fancy sending him back so soon without proper nourishment.

However, the decision was taken out of his hands as Molina finished his toast, took a few sips of Ron's tea, and disappeared into Ron's bedroom. Ron watched him go, and briefly contemplated hiring an owl from an agent in Diagon Alley to reply to Hermione's letter. He cleared the breakfast things, put out a dish of water for Molina, and finished dressing for work. Once he was ready to leave, he called out to the owl.

"I'm off to work, all right? I'll be back with some better food late-ish, and you can stay here until Hermione returns to England. Only, stay off the sheets."

There was no sound from the bedroom.

Ron sighed, picked up his satchel, and left. He walked through the late fall morning, crisp and windy, to the small offices on Polygon Road. His path took him by King's Cross, and through the wending streets of Muggle London; he relished the stench of the city after growing up in the country. He arrived at work, a nondescript block of small shop-fronts with offices above, and climbed the dingy and narrow stairs. There were three offices and a reception room; his co-worker, Tycho Galmynton, was away in Romania, lobbying the Romanian Ministry on a matter of Merpeople legislation. Ron unlocked the reception room, and set out the kettle for some tea.

When Hermione had opened the Centre, she had insisted that they include working Muggle plumbing and appliances. This turned out to be very useful. The woman who worked as their receptionist three days a week, Tycho's sister Mina, was a Squib. Ron had adapted to using Muggle appliances as often as magical, and sometimes, moments spent waiting for the kettle or doing the washing up were a brief respite from the harassment of his job.

Ron sorted the overnight owls and the first Muggle post, and replied to those things that were pressing. Then he searched out Luna's article from the Annals of Creatures and Comforts. Hermione had been right: the article was very useful, and Ron jotted a few notes for further research.

Mid-morning tea included a brief look over the Daily Prophet, which didn't have any information on Lupin but did contain a multi-page retrospective on the 30th anniversary of the end of the first war against Voldemort. There were numerous articles about Harry. Ron flipped past it all to find the Quidditch scores.

Just before lunch, as Ron struggled with a grant application for a Muggle foundation, the Floo lit. Harry poked his head through.

"Lunch?" he asked.

Ron closed the book he was reading – a recent volume of European Muggle legal precedent on human rights – and stood.

"Meet you at the Four Square?" Ron replied.

Harry nodded, and withdrew. Ron wondered where Harry had been. Nearly everyone else he knew, Justin Finch-Fletchly included, had to work a day job to pay the bills, but Harry never seemed to do anything. Part of that, Ron knew, was his status as the Boy Who Lived, and lived, and lived. The rest of it might have been down to the Potter family wealth and Harry's general parsimoniousness.

Ron locked the offices behind him, and made his way to the pub at the corner. He stepped carefully past the wall and section of sidewalk that served as the nightly urinal and vomitorium for pub-goers who couldn't make it home first. He arrived before Harry, and ordered two pints, plus a ploughman's for himself and a gammon steak for Harry. He had been sitting in the corner for a few minutes, watching a quiz show on the telly, when Harry arrived.

Harry was wearing a thick black cloak, quite inappropriate for the mild fall weather, and tattered trousers. He smelled faintly of smoke.

Ron pushed Harry's drink over to him, and said, "Hey, mate."

Harry nodded in response, and slumped in the seat across from Ron. Harry didn't say anything, so they sat in silence as the quiz show ended and a newsbrief began.

When the server arrived with their lunch, Ron finally spoke. "I need another."

"I'll go," said Harry.

"No, I've got it. You can get lunch." Ron rose, and made his way back to the bar. He had noticed that Harry seemed thinner, and his hair was as wild as ever. Harry's steak smelled lovely, and Ron briefly lamented his own choice for lunch.

Harry hadn't touched his steak by the time Ron returned with two more drinks, but he had taken a few bites of his peas.

Ron took a big bite of cheese and ham, and said, "Did you see the Cannon's score? I really like the look of this new chaser, Hughes. She's got a lovely touch."

"Yeah, I remember her playing on the Irish under-17s."

"She's Irish?"

"Her mother, I think," Harry said.

Ron nodded. "I suppose that's where she picked up those moves, the ones that look just like Moran all over again. Do you remember that World Cup? The Irish chasers were gorgeous." Ron sighed as he recalled the sheer splendor of watching World Cup Quidditch play.

Harry laughed briefly, and said, "I suppose. I'd have enjoyed growing up watching the Irish National side."

"Better than watching the English side." Ron shrugged. "Pathetic, they are."

Harry poked Ron. "Is that because all the good players are in the Wollington Wallies?"

"We have fun," Ron said, and shoved Harry in return. "We can't all be brilliant; some of us just love to play."

Harry stared into his drink, and Ron let him think for a bit before he continued.

"You ever think about joining a squad?" Ron asked. "Nothing big, just an amateur league. November to April, Saturday mornings. It's great, up in Hertfordshire; there's pub that we Floo in to, and the pitch is only just through the wood."

Harry sighed. "We've talked about this before," he said. "I don't want to play Quidditch."

"Yeah, but," Ron began, but Harry cut him off.

"No, Ron."

Ron scowled at Harry, but Harry wasn't paying attention. He was looking across the room at one of the staff.

"Another one?" Harry asked, and got up before Ron answered. Ron stared morosely at Harry's unfinished steak until Harry returned.

They finished their drinks and exchanged inconsequential small talk for the next half hour. The same member of staff Harry had been watching came and took their plates, and Ron watched Harry watch her. She was a dozen or more years younger than them, but Harry still looked like a teenager, and could perhaps get away with it without seeming a perverted old man. Harry's face seemed remote, but when she turned to them to ask if they wanted anything else, he smiled at her charmingly. Ron looked away.

When she was gone, Ron asked, "Hear anything from any of the Order?"

"The usual, mostly," Harry said. "Minerva owled me a few days ago; Remus died on Sunday. Tonks and Livia are moving back to Canada. Andromeda is selling Grimmauld Place." Harry finished, and went to stand up.

Ron reached out and touched Harry's arm. Harry stared at Ron's hand, and then at Ron's face, and Ron withdrew his hand.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Ron asked.

"Talk about what?" Harry said.

Ron stared at Harry for a long moment. Harry fiddled with the catches on his cloak and did not meet Ron's eyes.

"Never mind," said Ron.

---

When Ron arrived home that evening, Molina was sitting on the back of a dining room chair, asleep. The owl hooted softly at Ron as the door opened, and then went back to sleep. Ron smiled, and quietly put away most of the groceries. He left out a few owl treats and a fresh date, and filled a bowl of water.

When he went to bed, there was a dent the size and shape of a large owl on his pillow.

---

Friday morning dawned cold and clear.

At the kitchen table, Molina took all of Ron's toast once more, and Ron told him, "Hermione's home today, and then you can steal her toast."

Molina hooted, and continued to eat. Ron picked at his eggs and sausages. He hadn't been eating well for a few days, but at least Molina was getting enough treats to make up for it. Ron stood without finishing his breakfast, and left the plate for the owl. He gathered up the work he had brought home, and grabbed his heavy cloak; it was windy outside.

Just before Ron Disapparated, he asked, "Would you like to come down to the office around lunchtime, and see Hermione?"

Molina glanced up briefly before returning to Ron's sausages. Ron stared at the owl for a moment before leaving. If Molina wanted, he could find Hermione on his own.

Ron spent the morning spent filing paperwork and chatting with Tycho, who had just returned from Romania. After Elevenses, which consisted of pungent buns Mina had made, Tycho left for a meeting at the Ministry. Alone in the office, Ron gave a short attempt at finishing an article for the Daily Prophet on Tycho and the Centre's work in Eastern Europe. By the time he gave up on the article, he was already ten minutes late for lunch with Hermione.

Ron dashed out the door, and arrived at the Muggle restaurant Hermione had selected sweating and breathless. The bitter wind had forced him to wear the cloak, and now he was uncomfortably hot and freezing cold at the same time.

When he saw Hermione, he gave her a huge smile. She stood and they hugged. Ron pulled her up to swing her around in an extravagant gesture. Hermione laughed, and clutched Ron's shoulders tightly. They were both grinning madly by the time Ron let Hermione slide to the ground.

"Where's Fernando?" he asked, not letting her go.

"Oh, he's at my mother's," said Hermione. "He was a bit jetlagged, and England is not agreeing with him thus far."

"When did you get in?"

"This morning. I'm exhausted, but I wanted to see you before tomorrow."

Ron stepped back, and they both sat down. Ron picked up his menu.

"Ron, I know," Hermione began, but Ron cut her off.

"You know what, Hermione?" interrupted Ron. "You've been gone for three years. Indonesia, then India, then Nunavut, Brazil, Chile, wherever else you've been since you left," he hissed, leaning across the table and staring at her. He was gripping the edge of the table so hard that his knuckles were white.

Hermione didn't meet his eyes, and was fixated on her water glass. "I know, Ron. But I couldn't stay."

Ron leaned back and tried to control his anger. Hermione sat across from him, tense, with her lower lip quivering.

Eventually, Ron took a deep breath and broke the silence. "So, tell me about Rio."

Hermione gave him a small, relieved, smile, and launched into tales of her time in Brazil and Peru, of meeting Fernando and his family, of her work, of the things that she had learned that might be useful for the Centre.

The waiter came and went several times, and a bottle of red wine was half gone by the time their food arrived. Ron's pasta smelled very garlicky, and they paused their conversation to attack their lunches.

When Ron's pasta was half gone, he slowed, and watched Hermione eat her salad, her bites as careful and neat as they had ever been.

"What did he die from?" asked Ron, without preamble.

"Complications," Hermione said. "There were some old injuries, from the war mostly, or from," she hesitated, searching for words. "Other things, that never quite healed properly."

"Complications. Sounds like the story of his life."

Hermione frowned at him. Ron refused to look away.

"You know, the wars, his lycanthropy, his best friends," he said. He refused to skirt around Remus' defining features.

Hermione finally broke their locked gazes, and looked away. She bit her lip, and a single tear slipped down her face. Ron immediately stood and crouched next to her chair. He wrapped his arms around her waist. She didn't cry any more tears, but her body shook with grief. They both ignored the stares of the other patrons and the staff. When Hermione stopped shaking, Ron leaned back and looked up at her.

She met his eyes briefly, smiled, and said, "You can go back to your seat now, Ron. I think I can make it through the rest of lunch."

"If you're sure," he said, as he grinned at her and stood.

She wiped her eyes, and they both stared at their abandoned lunches.

"I'm not very hungry anymore," said Hermione.

"No," Ron said, still standing. "Shall we go someplace else? And bring the rest of the wine?"

Hermione stood, tossed a few bills on the table, and picked up the bottle. "There isn't much more, Ron."

"Oh," he said. "Then we've got to stop and get some more."

Hermione nodded, and they left.

They went back to Ron's flat by way of an off-license, and arrived with fortifications. Hermione cooed over Molina, who was still relaxing at Ron's dining table. After she was finished greeting Molina, she gathered up the leftover breakfast things, and gave Ron a glance that spoke volumes before she took everything into the kitchen.

"I think I've spoiled him rotten," said Ron, watching Hermione do the washing up.

"Molina doesn't let very many people spoil him," Hermione said, her back to Ron.

"He's a good owl. He's been keeping me company for the last few days."

"Do you want him?" Hermione asked when she had finished putting the washing up away.

"What?"

"He doesn't like Fernando very much. I think he's a bit of a bigot."

"What, wizards and witches only?"

Hermione nodded, an abashed look on her face.

Ron burst into laughter. "Wait for it: the witch who began the Centre for Equal Rights in Wizardry has an owl who doesn't like Muggles. It doesn't get better than that."

"Ron," Hermione said, and sounded just like his mother. This made Ron laugh harder, and soon Hermione began to chuckle too.

By the time he had recovered his wits, Hermione had opened a bottle of firewhiskey and poured them two very full glasses. She sat at the dining table, Molina perched at her shoulder.

Ron sat down next to her, and picked up his glass.

"How is Harry?" Hermione asked when the silence had stretched uncomfortably long.

Ron shrugged, and took a long sip of his drink. "I saw him on Tuesday, after I got your owl, and again yesterday. He said that he had heard from McGonagall about Remus, just after it happened I suppose."

"And?" Hermione prompted.

"And nothing. He hasn't said a bloody word. Merlin's beard, Hermione, I'm about to strap the tosser down and–"

"And what?" Hermione asked, when Ron trailed off.

"I don't know. My imagination fails. Don't you know a potion that will force a person to talk?"

"Tell the truth, speak previously unknown languages, remember childhood fears, but nothing that will make a man talk about his feelings."

"Then what good is magic, anyway?" complained Ron.

---

By the time Hermione left, it was early evening, and they were both quite drunk. Hermione had spent the afternoon alternately sobbing and ranting. Ron had attempted to console her, but he felt he probably hadn't done a very good job. Eventually, Ron had dragged Hermione to the fireplace, and tossed the Floo Powder for her. As soon as she was gone, he collapsed against the hearth. He stared at Molina, still sitting on the back of one of the dining room chairs.

"It's not fair," Ron said, and his chest ached. "It shouldn't have happened, none of it. Not to any of us." He grabbed the container of Floo Powder and threw it across the room. It exploded against the far wall. Molina watched it explode, then flew away.

"It's not bloody fair!" Ron shouted.

---

Remus' funeral was on Saturday and the first time Ron woke up, still slumped over on the hearth, he could hear rain pounding against the windows. He smiled, welcoming weather that suited his mood, and stood to get ready. He was still a little unsteady on his feet, and almost immediately fell over onto the couch. He closed his eyes to make the room stop swirling, and promptly fell asleep again.

The second time Ron awoke, the rain had stopped, but it was still dreary and dark, even at ten o'clock in the morning. He had a little over an hour to get prepared and get to the cemetery. Ron made his way to the bathroom, and found Molina perched on the towel rack.

"Will you ever actually leave?" he asked, and stepped into the shower without waiting for an answer.

After he had showered, shaved, and drank several glasses of water, he stood in front of his wardrobe and stared at his robes. His one set of good robes was deep blue, striking with his hair but hardly appropriate for a funeral. He had stayed away from black robes after leaving Hogwarts, as they reminded him too much of the school uniforms. The nicest black robes he had were several years old, and had been pressed into service for weddings and baptisms for years. They had been cleaned so often they were no longer pure black, but a very dingy gray.

Ron was reminded suddenly of Remus' robes from the first time they had seen him, on the Hogwarts train. The thought made him double over, and he wrapped his arms around his waist as he fell to his knees. Tears welled up, and Ron rocked back and forth. He wished his mother would come and hold him. Ron stayed there on his knees, teeth clenched and eyes squeezed shut. Twenty minutes later, jaw aching and now nearly late, Ron stood up cautiously, washed his face, and put on his graying robes.

He arrived at the church in the midst of a crowd, and stood alone, at a loss, until Minerva McGonagall came up to him and gave a small, tight smile. Ron returned the gesture, and they stood next to each other, not talking, until it was time for people to assemble at the graveside. The church was small and old and dusty, and made him sneeze. The low voices of the assembled people echoed off the stone walls unendingly in Ron's ears.

The funeral felt entirely too long, and Ron made the time pass by watching the trees in the wind, wondering when the rain would begin again. He didn't hear any of the service. Harry didn't say anything, but Hermione gave a moving speech, about Remus' time as their professor, about his friendships over the years. She talked about Sirius, and about James, and about Peter. No one at the funeral had known the four of them together very well. Most of their classmates were dead and most of the other attendees were members of the Order, people who had hated first Sirius and then Peter. Ron had helped her write the eulogy the afternoon before, and so knew most of it already. He didn't bother to compare what they had come up with together with what she actually said. Instead, he concentrated on the smell of the piles of wet and decaying leaves that surrounded Remus' plot.

He was surprised when people began to move away; he hadn't realized that it was over. People gave Harry their condolences, as if he was the last of Remus' remaining family, and left in small groups. Ron knew there would be a wake afterward in a small wizarding pub in the village, but he didn't want to leave just yet.

Before Hermione and Fernando left, she came over and gave Ron a fierce hug and a tight grin through her tears. Fernando did the same, which took Ron aback, but which he appreciated. Minerva McGonagall also hugged him, and kissed him softly on the cheek. That hug he returned more hesitantly, but she Disapparated before he could say anything. Other people spoke to him, friends as well as strangers, but he couldn't recall what he said to them, or even if he said anything.

In the end, only Harry, Ron, and Charlie were left, along with four men who stood some ways away holding shovels. It finally began to rain again, and the wet earth smelt acrid. Charlie and Ron watched Harry stare into Remus' grave, and then Harry gave one last choked smile at them, and Disapparated. Ron had a feeling that he wouldn't see Harry at the wake. Charlie came over to stand with Ron, and they began to walk away from the village, deeper into the cemetery. After a few paces, Charlie spoke.

"You're a good friend, Ron."

Ron snorted. "Fat lot of good that does Harry right now."

"It's okay. Just because Harry's an emotionally constipated–"

"Oh, you mean he's English?" Ron interrupted.

Charlie clipped Ron on the shoulder. Ron turned and grabbed Charlie's wrist, and they wrestled for a few moments, shoving and grabbing and laughing. Ron noticed one of the groundskeepers watching them and pulled Charlie to a stop. Charlie let go immediately, and stood still, his head tilted up against the rain.

Ron sighed, and leaned against Charlie. "It shouldn't hurt so much."

Charlie shrugged under Ron's shoulder.

"I don't think you get to make that decision, Ronniekins. It hurts as much as it does."

"It's not like we were ever," Ron began, and straightened up. He shoved his hands into the depths of his robes. "It's not like we were ever anything. We were never lovers, or friends, or anything. It shouldn't hurt this much if we weren't ever even friends."

"You were friends," said Charlie, and slung an arm around his brother. "He was a good guy. You could have done worse."

Ron laughed dryly. "Oh, I have, believe me." He leaned into Charlie again, and this time Charlie wrapped both arms around Ron. Ron returned the loose hug.

"He was good, wasn't he," whispered Ron.

Ron could feel Charlie nod against his chest. After long moments of silence, listening to the rain sputter around them and soak into their robes, Charlie spoke again, his voice muffled by Ron's robes and the rain.

"Harry seemed withdrawn."

Ron hesitated and pulled back a little before he answered. "Harry hasn't really been the same since Sirius."

"No, I guess he wouldn't."

"It's not that he didn't love Remus, but–" Ron stopped, and closed his eyes.

Charlie continued where Ron left off. "But Harry has always had problems with getting close to people, and then getting abandoned."

"Or just feeling abandoned," Ron amended.

Charlie nodded.

Ron wanted to ask, but couldn't find the words. Charlie was silent. Eventually, Ron spoke again.

"Is that what happened with you?"

Charlie didn't respond immediately, and Ron waited, still holding his brother.

"Harry has this little-boy-lost look sometimes, and he's so God-damned fit, and I guess I just wanted to help him," Charlie said finally.

Ron nodded. "Everyone wants to help him. Hermione, me, everyone. He doesn't much want helping, though."

"No, he doesn't."

"He doesn't want fixing, either, Charlie," said Ron.

"No, he doesn't," Charlie repeated.

"He doesn't need fixing," Ron pressed.

Charlie shook his head. "That's where you're wrong. If ever a man needed fixing, it's Harry Potter. But I'm not the one to do it."

"No?"

"I gave it my best shot, and woke up one morning to find the flat cleared out and no note."

Ron pulled back and stared at Charlie. He had wondered what had happened between them, but no one knew. Neither Charlie nor Harry had ever spoken about it.

"You're joking," said Ron, aghast.

Charlie shook his head again.

Ron let go of Charlie, and took a few steps before he whirled back to face his brother.

"Why didn't you ever tell me?" Ron asked.

"And what? You'd choose your brother over your best friend."

"Of course I would. You're my brother."

"Yeah, you would, too. But I didn't want you to," explained Charlie. "He might have broken my heart, but I didn't want to break his."

Ron stared at Charlie.

"Not like that, pervert," Charlie said, and punched Ron once more. Ron didn't bother to respond. "He needs his best friend; he'd die without you. You're the most important person in his life, Ron, the only thing that's been the same since he was eleven."

"Maybe what he needs is a swift kick upside the head."

Charlie laughed.

"Seriously, Charlie, you were the best thing that ever happened to him."

"After you and Hermione, maybe. And you could have been the best thing that ever happened to Remus Lupin."

"Wasn't ever going to happen. There was too much–" Ron hesitated.

"At stake?" Charlie finished for him.

"In the way," corrected Ron, and they both stared back at Remus' grave, the fresh-dug soil muddy in the rain.

---

They walked five miles to a pub in the next village, and sat by the fire, smelling of wet wool and softly steaming as the rain oozed out of their clothes. They hadn't spoken since leaving the cemetery, and it wasn't until the fifth pint that Charlie broke the silence.

"So here we are, the two bent Weasley brothers, pining over our lost loves." Charlie held up his drink, and toasted Ron.

Ron grimaced and took another long gulp of his own drink.

"To friends," Ron said.

"Oh, aye," said Charlie, and his head hit the table as he passed out.

Ron stared at him and began to cry.


End file.
